Between Feltro and Feltro
by otafucku
Summary: AU, OC/V. On the origins of how Nero came to be and his parents. A challenge issued by a close friend after a certain rumor concerning Vergil and Nero.


**Author's Notes:**

It's been a while, I guess, since I've dabbled in the DMC section. All the better though, since, I have an even better understanding of the series seeing as how I am older and hopefully, better as a writer. The story idea stemmed from a rant that a great friend and I elaborated on via livejournal. News of Vergil being Nero's father reached my ears and while we were trying to figure out if it was true or not, she said that I should definitely try and write it. So, here I am. The story of how Nero came to be. There will be more DMC fics to come—most likely Lady/Vergil, but in the meantime hopefully you enjoy this.

And, since you gave me the great idea and inspiration to write this down, this is once again dedicated to my great friend _Ellered_. I heart you.

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**Between Feltro & Feltro**

_But then my mind was struck by light that flashed and, with this light, received what it had asked. Here force failed my high fantasy; but my desire and will were moved already—like a wheel revolving uniformly—by the Love that moes the sun and the other stars. - _Dante's conclusion of _The Divine Comedy_. Canto XXXIII, _Paradiso_

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_Past the gates of Hell; the story of a man, son & mother; Vergil._

Though it had been nearly twenty years ago, she had looked down upon him and smiled as her son placed his lips against the songstress' own. He was beautiful, sharing the silver hair that was reminiscent of his father, ice-blue eyes and pale porcelain skin that had not one mar over the surface of his shell. He looked, she would say, nothing like the mother who had bore him, kept him sheltered inside her body for nine months, spoke to him softly even before he had come to be.

The last time she had held him in her arms he had been but a infant, nestled gently against her chest as he sucked hungrily at her breast. She had rocked him slowly then, cupping his face with her feminine hand as she sang softly to him in Spanish, her native language. She would watch his small eyes flutter close while he still suckled at her breast, stopping at times but once again draining the milk from her bosom. There, with her infant son, she had sat back against the cushions that lay on her bed comfortably, as she paused to stare out at the full moon that stood decorated in the deep endless azure sky. It looked almost surreal, she had thought to herself in amazement. Almost like the child she held tightly against her—her one and only son, the love of her life.

But that had been long ago, when she had been in a completely different place. In a world of mourning, loneliness, yet still caught between adoration and blessedness. She had lost him, but what he had given her in return had been much more than she could ask for—he had saved her, somehow, from the gates of hell even though he could not save himself. Though, at first, she had shared much dislike for the demon who had fathered her son, she would've loved nothing more at that time after which she had given birth, and still now, to have him by her side. Vergil had told her however, he had to be forgotten in order to move on not because he had foreseen what he would become—Nelo Angelo, an emotionless puppet corrupted by the Dark Emperor—but because he, as he explained, would be nothing like his father. All he had wanted to achieve was his lust for power... to be stronger than the full demon hero who had given him and his twin their namesake and the devilish blood running through their veins.

All of this, she thought, before it had become common knowledge that she was carrying his child. He, whom had been all that was left of her family.

When asked what would she name him, it had been clear to her—_Nero, she had said simply, I find myself quite fascinated by you, my son._

So young then at seventeen, a child who birthed a child, the virgin warrior who was a virgin no more and without a husband, just as her youngster stood without a sire. Died as a virgin, reborn as a mother.

Back then, just once—as they traversed through the place of the condemned—he had told her she was beautiful. Before, her hair had past her waist, dark glossy ringlets cascading like a sea down her back; her skin the color of light caramel and her face blessed with green-cat like eyes, lavish lips, and mysterious smiles. She had been a battler before her time in Hell, and still afterward, her body a long lithe mass, her breast small yet firm, her arms strong and muscled, her legs toned and lofty. Twenty years later, and still, she had looked the same. Albeit, now the once long silken locks of hair were cut to her shoulders, and aside from a laugh line or two, she had still been quite the beauty.

But still, beauty or not, she still had the scars that marred her body that had and would always serve it's purpose to remind her. The ones from her battles that left deep flaws of which would forever blemish her skin, some that had been given to her by _him_, and others by her son—

_He wanted me to stay with him, hold his hand and caress his silver tinted hair while he cradled against my knee, begging me to stay with him until the ends of Earth and beyond. The warm tears he cried burned my skin like molten lava as he held on, scared, powerless to keep me from my destiny but tempting none the less. I was so tempted to pick him up in my weakened arms and cry my own tears onto his cheek, press him to me and stay forever with him in my grasps and send praise to God for granting me this one gift, this one child, this one healthy baby boy._

The healthy baby boy. It had been all she had asked for and, though the pregnancy was at times desperately hard, she had nonetheless felt content when she finally realized that her belly was swelling with their pride and joy. And even though at times she had found herself weeping while in bed, when she had first laid her eyes upon him she had known that it had all been worth it.

The feeling, of course, had been reinforced after the first time she lay in bed to give him the milk from her body, from her soul, to quench his thirst and quiet his cries, as he slept against her breast, entwining his fingers though her hair in his sleep.

Her son, her precious Nero…

He would be great.

And even after she had let him go, left him in a small crib in front of the Fortuna gates as he looked up at her with glossy blue eyes—just a year old and still strong beyond comprehension—he had faired well without both a mother or a father to protect him.

She had abandoned him to dive into the depths of Hell once more, maneuvering herself so swiftly she could run across the sea without getting her feet wet and run across a field of grain without bending any of the plants. The long battles, the endless struggle, all to find him again, for them to meet somewhere between Feltro and Feltro. The scars tripled as she slashed through demons, her skin burned as she dove deeper through the molten magma depths, and at times she felt she had to surrender—her body full of fatigue, her muscles aching for after all, she was naught but a human (and still, she had felt she had acquired more strength from birthing a demon-human hybrid)—but she had stood up once more and trudged on.

Instead, her failing heart surged with feeling.

Not the fear that she had grown accustomed to.

Not the frustration she had built up over time.

Yet neither the sadness that always accompanied her.

_It is hope._

She merely just hoped.

At times, when she would finish off a demon or two, she'd find herself falling to her knees dropping her dual swords at her feet. Wondering, just why in the hell had she put herself through this torture? Hell wasn't made for a mere human to traverse through once, let alone twice. But what had she to lose? Her son had been safe, he had grown, made new friends along the way—_met his uncle_.

She had never met the incredibly flippant Sparda twin, but she had known of his existence. Had wondered—and seen—that the tales were true; he had been just as his father before him, the one his mother seemed to adore more. Vergil had never spoke of him once during their time together, though it hadn't been long. Dante, she knew, was a good role model for her son. He knew how to openly love, how to appreciate life and he protected it as such. Loyal, friendly, loving, but brave—a man who hadn't given up till the end.

Crystalline tears fell down her caramel cheeks despite her effort to blink them away.

She was so tired of crying. Before _him_, she had prided herself on doing no such thing. He had been the first man to make her weep, the memories of her son held tightly to her bosom had been the last.

She had been a woman now, and even from the time of her childhood, she hadn't been under anyone's protection but her own. She had seen some of the worst, had witnessed some of the worst, but hadn't let herself cry. She had become numb, felt a deep nothingness for the bloodshed that had transpired, but for them? Her family? It had been unlike anything else.

Never had she known what it was like to be sleep next to a man like Vergil, like normal man and wife. Instead, she had done so with her child, laying him on the large chamber bed beside her at night. Other times, she'd leave him to his crib, and let out a prayer for his father before slumbering alone in the largest bed that seemed to swallow her long form whole. The emotional pain had racked her like nothing else ever had and soon she had become obsessed. Obsessed enough to leave her son in search of his father. Had that made her a bad mother, she had wondered to herself at times, hoping that it was not the case.

When she had finally once more encountered him past the gates of Hell, she nearly shook from the realization that he had stood before her. Frozen, she could do nothing but let a prayer of blessing pass her lips as she stared at him: the face that she had grown to love still handsome yet marred with blue veins, the skin paper-white, his silver hair covering his face in a fashion that made him completely identical to his mouthy brother. But it had been his eyes that made her weak in the knees, the azure blue orbs had been replaced to the color of glowing molten magma. Those eyes, reminiscent of his Nelo Angelo form, turned to look at her with intense curiosity. His strong and lean body was covered in a purple aura, as he walked toward her, zweihänder secured tightly in his grasp.

"Finally." Had been the first words he had uttered. "We meet again, Camilla."

His voice had not been his own. It was deeper, darker, laced with an emotion that she could not place.

She had wanted to cry once more. To bury her face in the crook of his neck and weep for she had found him, but she kept the surge of emotions at bay. Instead, she had collected her wits about her—held herself up despite her exhaustion because she had refused to show weakness to a man like Vergil Sparda.

"I've come to take you back to the Human World." Her voice had been calm, strong and she masked the rest of what she had actually been feeling; stunned joy, endless dire, ravenous anger because it had been all of his fault that she had come back.

To think that she had wasted twenty years of her simple mortal life for him, Camilla had refused to think of it. Inwardly, she had felt a fool yet still, there he was standing before her as a shell of the demon-human hybrid he used to be. Now a corrupted soul of something else, something new entirely. Still, with the death of Mundus, had he not been freed.

Vergil cocked his head to the side like an inquisitive dog, a slight smirk decorating his features. She wondered, seeing this simple action, had he really cared? But as he walked over to her, still elegant and refined yet complete masculinity, she had trusted that a part of him must've for he had listened so far and he had never been one for mindless chatter. His eyes were burning, but they still froze her to the bone, just as much as his chilled emotionless voice.

_The coldest eyes I've ever seen_, she had told him once.

He had finally gotten close enough to touch her, and when he did, she found herself recoiling back out of instinct.

At her reaction, he had thrown his head back and laughed.

"What's the matter?" His icy voice intoned. "Are you afraid?"

Camilla shook her head. "No," she replied. "I am not." Her voice began to rise, the heat of her words forming as she went on. "I've waited years for this moment and never in all of my life have I wanted to abhor someone as much as I desired to abhor you."

At this, had he not said a word. The expression on his face was one of indifference which only served to infuriate her more. She had wanted to say that he had left her alone while she bore his child, wanted to ask why had he chosen her because she had been sure he had known that he had impregnated her.

"How is the brat?" He had asked nonchalantly.

She scowled at him, gripping the shaft of her swords and swinging at him with all of the energy she had left. Vergil, of course, had been much quicker, grabbing her by the wrists quite easily before she could even land a hit. His grip had been merciless, and she felt as if he would break her hands right off, but instead pulled her against his chest and held her tight.

Camilla tried her hardest to remove herself from his grasp to no avail. He held her securely against him, bringing them together as one. And though he would never admit it, delighted to hold her once more. She had looked up at with large emerald green eyes, full lips opened just slightly enough for her to slide out her tongue trace her fleshy mouth. She had tried to rid herself of his grasp once more, embarrassed that he had to see her like _this_—fatigued and angry beyond comprehension, showing off her weakness already.

But what he would whisper next would stop her in her tracks;

"You've come to me, Camilla," His voice so smooth, so light, but naught a whisper as he removed a strand away from her eyes. "That is all I could ever want."

His eyes never left hers as he trailed kisses down her neck, past her collarbone and into the plunge of her breast. He had kissed her through the fabric, leaning down till he stop at the navel of her stomach, brushing his lips against the scars she had been given from their son's birth as he began to remove her clothes until she had been completely naked. He had paused at her bare womanhood to look up at her, and she had slicked his silver strands back with her hands to get a clear view of his complicated face before he dipped down and placed a warm, succulent kiss over her clit, making her lean her head back reminiscent of the feel of ecstasy she hadn't felt for twenty years.


End file.
